


I need oxygen

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Famous, Babysitting, CPR is administered, First Kiss, First Love, Fluff, Happy Ending, I'm Sorry, Implied Sexual Content, Kid Fic, M/M, No Smut, Sexual Tension, Student Harry, Teacher Louis, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, but no one gets hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-04
Updated: 2015-04-04
Packaged: 2018-03-21 00:51:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3671451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis gets roped into teaching a babysitting class, and Harry is his prize pupil.</p><p>OR that one where Harry puts his mouth on Louis and saves them both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I need oxygen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [midnightwhistleberries](https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightwhistleberries/gifts).



> This is somewhat loosely based on a CPR-themed prompt from midnightwhistleberries, but I hope it suffices. I carefully considered their request for it to be "as fluffy as possible." (I may have even overdone it. Whoops!)
> 
> Title and quoted lyrics from Colbie Caillat's _Oxygen_.

_“I found a boy who had a dream/_ _Makin’ everyone smile_

 _He was sunshine/_ _I fell over my feet_

_Like bricks underwater_

_And how am I supposed/_ _To tell you how I feel?_

_I need oxygen…”_

****

“Oi, Bethany, you’ve got piss everywhere.”

At her teacher’s admonishment, the young teen stops her faltering movements.

“What?” she asks nervously, stepping back from the table she’s sharing with her partner for the week and three other students, each labouring diligently over a doll. “Why?”

The instructor, Louis, comes up beside Bethany and urges her forward with a flattened hand to one of her shoulders. “Never leave a baby by itself on the changing table, love. It’d only take a mo’ for it to roll off. Look now,” Louis says, “if you don’t get that nappy folded over faster than that, it’s a mess like you wouldn’t believe.”

“But if he already peed his pants, how would he have any left?”

“I don’t know, they... They save it up for changing time, or summat. Trust me, though, I’ve gotten a face full of it more than twice.”

Louis leaves Bethany to practice on her doll and he wanders the classroom, giving encouragement and guidance where it’s needed.

Today marks the halfway point of Babysitting Bootcamp, and Louis’ not completely sure it’s going to be worth the £150 they’re paying him to lead it. The educational programme is for children aged 10 to 16. It’s offered by a paediatric clinic in his hometown and was spearheaded by Louis’ mother, a nurse midwife with seven kids of her own, six of them younger than Louis.

That’s half a dozen little scamps Louis’ had to swaddle, feed, change, bathe, entertain, and pop into bed at the end of every crazy day in the life of the Tomlinson tribe. His stepfather, Mark, left a year ago, and to say Louis has some experience caring for children is an understatement. When Louis’ not working one of several odd jobs for grocery money, he’s playing mum to his siblings while Jay, their mother, covers every shift she can at the clinic. Luckily, Jay is engaged to be married to a kind and responsible man, which will make things easier at home. Easier for Louis to finally leave home, too.

Louis took a gap year after sixth form, but he’s planning to begin university this fall. At the age of 19, with newly-formed biceps and a burgeoning sense of self, he’s more than ready to make the switch from man of the house to man about campus. Having some cash in his pocket should make the transition easier, hence teaching a gaggle of giggling girls how _not_ to kill an infant.

Actually, though, the class isn’t entirely populated by females. There’s one boy in their midst, an awkward but likeable adolescent called Harry. Louis can’t determine his age; Harry has a baby face and a juvenile manner of dress (including furry winter caps shaped like animals—a bear and a tiger—which he’s wont to wear even inside the building), but he’s as tall as Louis and surprisingly gruff-voiced. Harry’s whole appearance is a collection of contradictions: soft facial features war with a sharp jawline, while his strong, wide shoulders are offset by tufts of curls peeking out beneath his hat. Louis guesses Harry is toward the top of the 10 to 16-year-old range, but at least a few years younger than himself.

At the moment, Harry is demonstrating his ace nappy changing skills to a floundering student next to him. She whines at Harry’s invitation to try it for herself, but her whole posture changes when she notices Louis watching. A hair flick and shy smile tell him she’s interested—not in what he has to teach about childcare but in seeing him shirtless, maybe.

What the simpering girl (and four or five others Louis has caught trying to flirt) doesn’t know is that Louis, given his pick of anyone in the room, would be 100% more likely to ask Harry out. If there wasn’t such an age difference, that is, and provided Harry bats for the same team. It’s of no consequence, because Louis is here in a purely professional capacity. Pulling isn’t on the agenda, no matter how lonely his dick has been since Aiden moved away.

“And how are we faring over here?” Louis asks, striving for a lofty tone. He aims his next question at the girl—Rachel is her name—however much he wants to focus on Harry to the exclusion of everyone else. “Ready to get your baby dressed?”

“Well, actually, I’m not understanding this. Can you just show me how to do it again? Once more and I’ll have it, promise.” Rachel really is lovely, in spite of her ulterior motives. She makes Louis want to launch into a speech on protecting your heart and waiting for the right guy. All the prospective babysitters here could benefit from the advice, he thinks. His sister Fizzy has already been hurt by an insensitive boyfriend, and she’s only a year 7.

“Seems Harry has things under control, don’t you, Curly? Must be those big hands. You’re really good with them, I reckon. Very... _dextrous_.” Louis smiles at both of the students and hopes he’s not imagining the way Harry looks sweetly flustered. “Will you be a darling and show Rachel how it’s done?”

“Yeah. Of course, yeah.” Harry turns back to their table, moving the girl’s doll marginally closer to him, and continues instructing his partner in a low voice. “See, it’s pretty easy with the velcro tabs. My mum told me they were still using cloth and pins when I was a baby. At least we don’t have to worry about injuring the child.”

 _Injuring the child_. Louis mentally replays the phrase in Harry’s slow droning voice as he returns to the front of the room. If Harry wasn’t so bloody cute, it’d be easier to avoid fantasies which involve setting up house with him. Not that Louis has had any fantasy along those lines—or any, you know, other fantasies about the curly-headed teen.

But they’re in class, and Louis must stop his mind from wandering. Nothing matters right now, Louis reminds himself, aside from the importance of training this generation in safe child rearing. 

****

Harry would lay odds that if the doll in his arms was a real, breathing baby, it’d be healthier and happier than those of the other 15 students in the room. For instance, while half the class neglects their now-dressed dolls in favour of a chat (and some of the other dolls would certainly be rolling off the table while their caregivers watch the teacher bop towards the podium with springs on his little feet and a sway to his not-so-little arse), Harry has his charge carefully nestled to his chest. He rocks the doll whenever he thinks of it, humming a soothing tune under his breath.

 _And_ he manages to do all of the above whilst ogling Louis. Take that, girls. Harry is excellent with multitasking, surely a necessary skill for babysitters and, he thinks wistfully, future parents.

Speaking of, that’s why he’s in this class. No, he’s not gotten someone preggers. Seventeen is too young to reproduce, even for someone as precocious as Harry. Rather, his sister and her husband are expecting, and Harry has enthusiastically volunteered to be their sitter when they go out. Which means he damn well better know how to safely handle a baby, and he’s had no younger siblings or even cousins to practice with. So although he falls outside the target age range, Harry enrolled and was accepted to Babysitting Bootcamp, and here he is.

Here he is competing with several winsome females for the instructor's attention. God knows, he’s got no chance. Harry has massive, clever hands, that’s true, and so far he’s mastered the content of the class with ease. But what he doesn’t possess is a delicate waist or ripening bosom, qualities Harry assumes most men, including Louis, deem valuable.

It’s been boys for Harry from the word go. He’s accepted it, and even better, his family doesn’t mind. In fact, they’ve been quite vocal in wishing he’d bring one home for them to torment. Nobody yearns for that scenario more than Harry himself, however. If it weren’t for the meager population of the village he was raised in (and, therefore, the lack of other out and proud youth), he would’ve had his first snog by now. Maybe some other firsts too, he muses with a faint blush.

Harry doesn’t have near enough time to indulge a daydream before Louis is instructing them in the proper way to prepare baby formula. He does remind himself that seeing Louis pinch a silicone teat and shake a bottle in the air with his fist is not sexy. God, Harry’s doomed—and his new niece or nephew with him, if he doesn’t get it together and pass this course.

****

During the next few days of lessons, Louis finds one reason after another to single Harry out. Sure, he’s a very hands-on sort of teacher to begin with, but he lets himself take it farther with Harry. Especially now he knows how to make the boy blush and stammer and shuffle his feet. Even more importantly, he’s discovered the “boy” is actually 17—only two years younger than Louis himself and of legal age. The knowledge certainly has eased Louis’ guilt over his semi-inappropriate crush. He likes the kid, dammit, and by next week, they won’t be teacher and student anymore. There’s also been some indication the feeling is mutual, and that’s maybe more exciting to Louis than it should be.

Now it’s the final day of bootcamp, and Louis has brought croissants for everyone. It’ll cut into his profit, sure, but he’s just so proud of himself seeing it through, and the students learning everything set out in the materials. Even the most persistent of flirts has buckled down. And Louis? Well, he’s finally become immune, or at least inured, to Harry’s charms. Mostly. Like, maybe 51% inured. It’s a tremendous reduction, really, and it’s all down to the amount of time Louis spent staring at—erm, watching Harry dispassionately from a distance. It’s like looking directly into the sun: you go a little blind after a few minutes, just as Louis is now blind to Harry’s blazing beauty and shining soul.

Anyway, this is it, the last time they’ll meet for lessons, and it may prove the most difficult class yet. Not only because Louis isn’t quite ready to let go of his students (well, one in particular).

Louis’ already given them the basics of infant CPR, but today his group will demonstrate the skill on a dummy. In order to be officially certified in first aid, each student must perform a successful resuscitation in the specified number of minutes.

They’ve only got a few hours of class, and Louis wants them to have time to socialise at the end, so they get right into testing. It’s a tedious process, requiring Louis to disinfect the dummy between rounds of rescue breathing. He finds it foul how much saliva collects in the little mouth and nose of the unfortunate plastic infant.

His students are doing well, though, each girl showing composure and the right amount of seriousness during the task. Louis feels proper good about sending them off with their CPR certification into the homes of children all over their small city.

That is, until Harry comes forward to test. Straight away, he commits a grave error, going in to give the dummy breaths before even checking to see if it needs them.

“No, Harry, stop. Did you forget the steps?”

Harry looks nervous. He’s clutching his hands and swaying in place. “Um. Yeah, I guess.”

“It’s fine. Try it again from Step 1. You need to check for…” Louis prompts.

“Responsiveness?”

“That’s right! Show me how it’s done.”

Hunching to lean over the dummy, Harry says sotto voce, “Can you hear me, little baby?” He places a hand on the infant’s shoulder, and it almost spans its entire upper body. “Come on, baby, look at me.”

“Okay, it’s not conscious. What else do you need to check for?” Louis asks. If he wasn’t so focused on coaching Harry through this moment, he might be flustered at hearing the other boy whisper “baby” so tenderly.

Harry ventures a guess. “Breathing?”

“Right again.” Louis beams at him.

Tilting the dummy’s head back, Harry lowers an ear over its mouth to listen for breathing.

“That’s, um, that’s good, Harry, but your head is facing the wrong way.”

Harry glances up, perplexed. “What do you mean?”

“Listen with your other ear, so the baby’s chest is in your sight line. You need to watch for it rising and falling.”

“Oh, yes. Sorry.” Harry makes the change and waits for several moments before straightening up. “It’s not breathing. Should I give the breaths?”

Louis can’t help frowning. “Is that actually Step 2?”

“I mean, I think it is, yeah.”

“Try to remember, love. This bit is really important.”

Fidgeting and clearing his throat, Harry struggles to recall the missing step. “I can’t, um… Is it okay to skip that for now?”

“Not during the test. I’m sorry, Harry.”

“Crap,” Harry says, dejected.

“Time’s almost up,” Louis tells him, “and I need to give someone else a turn. Maybe just— Hmm. Can you stay after class?”

Harry’s dreamt of hearing those last five words from Louis, but not under such disappointing circumstances.

“Yeah, I will.”

****

They’re alone now—Louis and Harry. For the first time, in fact. All the other students have gone off with their certificates of completion, happy faces, and phones full of new contacts. Harry is quiet, stands abnormally still, waiting for Louis to deliver the verdict:

“So basically, you’ve failed the course.” Harry’s face crumbles, and it cleaves Louis’ heart into halves. “Not the whole thing!” he hastens to assure him. “Only the CPR portion, okay? What I’m thinking is this... I’ll bring the dummy home with me tonight. You come over whenever it’s convenient, then after a spot of practice, you can do the test again.”

Harry ponders the plan with a furrowed brow. “Would that be considered cheating?”

“Fuck’s sake, Harry,” Louis scolds, simultaneously charmed and irritated. “This isn’t Oxford. Everyone is meant to succeed, and there aren’t any specific parameters. As long as I have the equipment back by, like, Monday, I don’t see what it matters.”

Silence settles over the classroom while Harry thinks. It’s strange not to have their ears ringing with the high-pitched chatter of teen girls. “Alright,” he says at last. “What’s your address?”

“Give me your number, and I’ll text it to you.”

They swap contact information, then Harry gathers his coat and hat to leave. Louis’ occupied tidying the room and placing the dummy in its carrying case, but Harry speaks to him once more.

“Thank you, um. Just… Thanks.”

“What for?” Louis wonders aloud.

“For, like, taking so much time with me and trying to get this CPR stuff through my thick skull.”

Though Harry is apparently in earnest, his words make Louis chuckle. “The only thing thick about your head is your silly curls, Harry. And it was my pleasure, trust me.”

“Well, then,” Harry reflects bashfully. “I guess you’re in for more pleasure tonight.” A heartbeat later, he realises how that must’ve sounded. Should he panic?

Louis’ eyebrows elevate like magic. “Ooh, I very much hope so.”

 _Phew_. His teacher seems more intrigued than offended. “Goodbye for now, Louis.”

“Ta,” Louis says. It’s about all he can manage at the moment.

****

After Harry gets up the nerve to press the buzzer next to Louis’ front door, a younger, blonder, girlier copy of Louis answers the summons.

“Hi, Harry!” she says, swinging the door open to him. “You’re in Boobear’s class, yeah? He fancies you something awful," she titters. Harry places her at about 7 or 8 years old.

“Um. What's a boo bear?” Harry enters the modest home a bit nervously.

"It's what Mum calls Louis, always has done. I think it’s cute."

"Cute, Pheebs?" Louis asks, appearing behind her and gazing at Harry warmly. "If I was a bear, I'd be a grizzly. And I have it on good authority they eat little meddlers like you. Roooooooar!"

When the child races from the room, Louis gives chase, but only momentarily. As soon as she's gone, Louis turns back to where Harry waits in the foyer, making adjustments to the previously immaculate swoop of his fringe.

"You can hang up your coat, if you like." Louis gestures to an overflowing coat tree adjacent to the entrance.

"Oh, thanks," Harry says, but he fumbles the garment when trying to locate an empty hook. It falls to the ground, blanketing a veritable mountain of discarded shoes and boots. “Oops,” he says.

When Harry bends quickly to retrieve the coat, Louis does too. That’s even worse, because now they’re stooped together, faces quite near. Harry’s feels bright with embarrassment.

“Hi,” Louis tells him. It’s a quiet greeting, and their proximity makes the moment seem private, intimate. With one hand still grasping the coat and the other under Harry’s elbow, Louis helps him back upright. Then he tosses the tricky outerwear over the very top of the coat tree. Of course, he makes it look easy.

Harry’s nonplussed but grateful. “Thank you.”

“Not a problem,” Louis says, rolling his shoulders to loosen them. Maybe he’s not unaffected by the encounter, after all.

Clearing his throat, Harry belatedly tries for nonchalance. “You _are_ fairly small, um. More of a grizzly bear cub.”

Louis makes a hurt noise and lays one palm atop his heart. “You wound me.”

Hoping he hasn’t caused real offence, Harry backtracks. “Nothing wrong with being, like, petite.”

“That’s true.” Louis inclines his head in agreement. “And, anyway, I’m a scrappy cub. You don’t wanna see what I can do with my claws.” For emphasis, he drags a blunt fingernail down Harry’s shirt over his breastbone.

He’s dead wrong, though. Harry wants to see exactly what Louis can do with his claws and, well, every other part of his body. Mostly the other parts.

“May I take your hat?” Louis asks politely, putting a few steps between them. It’s then Harry realises he’s still wearing a panda beanie.

“Oh, god. Yeah, thank you,” he says, handing it over. “It’s—it’s my sister’s.” For some reason, he feels obligated to explain his childish headgear.

“Ah, yes. Girls do collect the weirdest things, don’t they?”

“Mm hmm.”

“So here’s what I’m thinking...” Louis begins, but he pauses to call out, “Lottie? Is that a waffle I smell burning?”

“It’s under control, Lou, bugger off.” The voice is muted, as if its owner is several rooms away.

Louis chuckles fondly. “Sorry. This house is full of poor cooks, and I am their king.”

“S’alright. I can help, like, if you’re preparing supper.” Harry wrings his hands, at a loss for what to do with them.

“No worries. We’re only making breakfast food tonight. Waffles with jam are the twins favourite, and mum got us one of those irons you flip to cook them in.”

“That sounds fun,” Harry speculates. “I’ve only seen them in hotels.”

“Me too, but they were on special at ASDA, apparently.”

Harry finds himself relaxing into their conversation. It was always fun to talk with Louis during class, and Harry’s glad that ease translates to another setting.

“What’s the plan, then?” he asks.

“Oh, right.” Louis seems to gather himself. “Lotts and I are home alone with the kids just now, but once they’ve been fed, we’ll have the run of the basement for your CPR lesson.”

Harry shouldn’t flush at the thought. He shouldn’t, but he does, capillaries under his pale skin betraying him, as per usual.

“They may need us, though,” Louis says, leading his guest into the house. “Are you hungry?”

“Not, um, not really. I ate at home.”

Louis shrugs as he walks. “That’s okay.” But before they reach the kitchen, he’s intercepted by another girl, this one identical to the first except for a pair of unraveling braids and wild eyes.

“Louiiiiis,” she wails, “Ernest left a poo on the ground again. On purpose!”

Stopping to take her hand, Louis asks, “Which room, love?”

“The downstairs toilet.”

“That’s good, at least. Easy to clean. And I don’t reckon it was on purpose, Daisy; he’s not even 2.”

“Still,” she whines. “You should take away his truck for being naughty.”

“You want him to cry all night, then?”

“No, but—”

“Butts are for nappies,” Louis teases his sister. “And speaking of, let’s get one back on Ernie.”

“Um, like,” Harry says to Louis’ back, “Do you want me to…”

Louis throws a chagrined look over his shoulder. “Sorry. Sounds like I’ve got poo patrol. Will you help in the kitchen? Lottie will tell you what to do, and I’ll just be a few ticks.”

“Sure, yeah, definitely. Like, of course.”

“Right eager beaver, you are.” Louis’ words shame Harry, but they’re softened with a wink. “It’s ahead on the left.”

“Okay, thanks. So I’ll… Meet you there?”

“Five minutes or less, I promise.”

Harry and Louis smile at the same time, eyes locked. It feels like an omen. Louis gives one more wink before he and Daisy shuffle off down a corridor. At least, Harry hopes it’s a wink and not an involuntary facial tic. He wants to believe Louis harbours some small fondness for him.

In the kitchen, one girl mans the waffle iron while another stirs a pot of beans on the hob. The child Louis had called Pheebs is sat munching a sausage she has speared on a fork, and there’s a toddler in a high chair next to her at the table.

“Harry!” the girl cries, mouth full.

“Dis. Gust. Ing,” Bean-Stirrer says. “Keep that gob shut when you chew.”

Feeling incredibly awkward and out of place, Harry offers a timid smile to the group at large and asks, “Is there something I can do to help?”

Waffle-Maker looks him up and down, and it’s disconcerting. “You must be the fresh meat.” She’s probably Harry’s age, attractive in a compact way. “I’m Lottie, Louis’ oldest sister.”

“Hi,” Harry says, executing a dorky wave of his hand.

Bean-Stirrer giggles before introducing herself. “I’m Félicité, but these lot call me Fizz.” She seems to be younger, perhaps 11 or 12. Her hair nearly matches Louis’ medium brown, unlike Lottie’s which is obviously bleached, but both of them have his perfect button nose. “That’s Phoebe, and the baby is Doris, if you were wondering.”

“Nice to meet you all,” Harry says.

Lottie finally takes pity on him and gives him a task. “Can you slice fruit for the waffles?”

“Absolutely. I love fruit, bananas especially.”

“I’m sure,” Lottie say cryptically, laughing. “There’s a bunch over there; everything else is in the fridge. Go wild.”

“Thanks.”

“I want strawberries!” Phoebe asserts.

“And you shall have them,” Harry promises. As long as he speaks only to the younger girl, he can pretend to be brave and, like, sociable. Later, as he cores the berries with a paring knife, Harry asks her, “Do you know why strawberries are red?” Phoebe shakes her head, mouth crammed with waffles and some type of purple preserves. “Um, it’s so that birds will be attracted to the plant and eat them. Then the seeds—you know, those tiny ones that get stuck between your teeth—are digested, and the birds drop them all over, which makes new strawberry plants grow.”

Phoebe thinks on that while she swallows. “So bird shite makes baby strawberries?”

Harry’s hand slips on the knife just a bit, and Lottie guffaws. “We don’t use that word, Phoebe. At least not when Mum’s around, okay?”

“Okay,” Phoebe says with a small pout. “Anyway, we learned at school berries are good for your skin if you smash them up and make a paste. You can get rid of freckles that way too.”

Moving on to the bananas, Harry says, “Freckles are so cute, dunno why you'd want to lose them." Phoebe shakes her head disapprovingly, so Harry changes tack. "That's interesting, though. What else did you learn?”

“Well, my teacher didn’t know it, but Louis says that if I eat them everyday, and if I stop trimming my nails, they’ll be 30 centimetres long by Christmas.”

“That’s not even true,” Fizzy blurts. “How could they grow that fast?”

Louis enters the room with a baby on his hip and Daisy in tow. He must’ve heard some of the conversation, because he answers, “Strawberries are a superfood. Google it if you don’t believe me.”

“I believe you,” Harry says, suddenly shy again, but still brave enough to defend his crush's intelligence.

“And that’s why we’ll keep you around, pet,” Louis murmurs, walking past him, then announces to the room, “Harry’s good for my ego.”

“Maybe he’s a superfood,” Lottie suggests dryly. “You should eat him.”

Louis’ quick on the uptake. “A super dude, more like! And I’m sure he’s delicious.”

“Oh, my god,” Fizzy groans. She’s busy dishing up beans to everyone. Louis takes a chair at the table and balances the toddler (who must be Ernest) on his knee.

“Can you make me a plate, Fizz? And Harry, I’ll give the babies some banana if you cut it really small.”

“Alright.” He’s not quite over the idea of Louis _eating_ him.

“No.” Lottie is adamant. “They can’t have pieces of it till they’re older. Remember when the neighbor’s kid choked and they had to call 999?”

“I know the Heimlich, my dear. And, of course, I’m certified in first aid and infant CPR,” Louis boasts. “Sorry, Harry. I don’t mean to rub salt in the wound.”

“Doesn’t bother me, but I’ll just mash one of these instead, if that’s alright? Wouldn’t want to be, like, responsible for a death or something.”

Louis _tsks_ at him. “No need to be macabre. Little ears and all that.”

“You’re the one who taught us to curse, Louis. Don’t think you have much room to point fingers,” Lottie chides.

“Shush,” says Louis gently, “Shush,” but it comes out sounding like _shoosh_. Harry thinks it’s hopelessly adorable.

When they’ve all eaten their fill—even Harry, who was persuaded to try the homemade waffles—no one has choked or perished. Ernest’s plastic toy truck does have quite a lot of banana stuck in its wheels, though.

****

It’s half 7 now. Phoebe and Daisy are sat companionably on a sofa, watching telly in the lounge. At their feet, Harry is tickling baby Doris’ belly, while Louis plays with his hair. It may be an odd thing for a former teacher turned new friend to do, Harry thinks, but it doesn’t bother him in the slightest. Rather, it’s lulling him into a state of complete placidity. Everyone is calm, still sated from dinner.

Louis has promised that they’ll retreat to the basement for CPR lessons after the younger twins are asleep. Lottie’s in the other room, giving Ernest his bath.

“When does your mum get home?” Harry asks in low tones, not wanting to interrupt the girls’ programme.

“Oh, not till morning. It’s one of those godawful 12-hours shifts.”

“That’s too bad.”

Louis hums agreement and starts to plait one of Harry’s curls.

It’s all very wonderful, evening melting away to dusk. When Lottie returns a fresh-scrubbed baby boy to them, Harry sends Doris off with her to be cleaned and dressed for bed.

Harry may have already succumbed to sleep were it not for Ernest’s occasional squeals. Louis has left off styling Harry’s hair and begun playing a game with his brother that seems to involve the boy’s truck hiding in Louis’ sock and then reappearing.

He is further roused by the strange spectre of a naked child, Doris, running like a pudgy Olympic sprinter for the front door.

“Um,” Harry says, but Louis is already on the move. Tragically, his pursuit of the toddler is delayed when he’s tripped up by the curling edge of an area rug. Louis tumbles forward.

“Ouch, my knees,” he laments. “Get her, Harry.”

It’s too late. The heavy storm door was open to let in the fresh evening air, and Doris must’ve managed to push open the lightweight screen. She’s a block down the road by the time Harry makes it outside.

Suddenly, Louis is pushing past him with a baby changing bag slung over his shoulder. As he jogs away, he hollers, “Help the others get their trainers on, coats too, and meet me round the corner. There’s a park.”

“All of us?”

“Yes, Harry. What are you waiting for?”

****

When Harry, Ernest, and the other girls are appropriately dressed for the weather, Fizzy leads them to a small, grassy play area nearby. Remarkably, Louis has Doris suited up in warm clothes and a jacket. Harry supposes they came from the knapsack.

The air is cold and a little damp, and the playground equipment is slick as a result. They probably shouldn’t even be here this late in the evening, but Louis insists running about outdoors is the only way to slow the toddlers down when they’re this hyper. Daisy gripes because the condensation on the slide soaks into her jeans. Otherwise, they have fun under a mostly dark sky.

Harry volunteers to keep an eye on the younger twins, placing Doris in a small sandpit and Ernest in a swing with a sturdy seat and straps. He splits his attention between the two, talking to them all the while. Lottie has stayed behind at home to Skype with a friend, but Fizzy is riding a rocking toy at a frantic pace, and it makes her look younger than her years. Harry may not know these kids well; even still, he’s happy to see them shedding inhibitions and playing freely.

They’re finally losing speed. Little Ernest’s head is drooping, and Doris is patting at the sand, but she’s lying on her side now. From his perch on a climbing structure, Louis gives the three older girls notice that they’ll being heading home in ten minutes.

Louis nearly sends Harry into cardiac arrest by scampering across the top of some monkey bars, but when Louis hooks his legs over to hang by his knees, Harry breathes easier.

Unfortunately, his relief is premature.

Watching Louis lose his grip and fall is like watching a star leave the heavens. There’s shock at the unexpected sight, followed by an adrenaline rush, and a frisson of fear as it completes its short path and flames out. Or—in this case—as Louis tilts sideways midair and lands hard on one shoulder, the rest of his body weight adding force to the collision. His head bounces, and then he lies motionless on the ground.

Phoebe screams, which makes one of the babies cry, but Harry knows they’re safe, so he doesn’t pause to check on or comfort them. Instead, he bounds to his fallen friend. Harry tries valiantly to assess the situation just as Louis’ taught him: he can see no blood or protruding bones. The positions of his limbs look fairly natural, so that’s good. Louis is definitely unconscious, though, and—fuck! Is he breathing? His chest doesn’t seem to be rising under the twisted gray fabric of his hoodie.

Okay, Harry can _do_ this. He crammed for that CPR test for an hour before bed last night. He’s going to steadfastly ignore the fact that he failed to follow the steps correctly on a dummy, and the poor thing would have died had it been alive to begin with. No, this is different. The stakes are high, and destiny is on his side, right? Jesus and all of Santa's elves will guide him. Harry is mixing metaphors, but it doesn’t matter. He centres his thoughts, bringing all knowledge of CPR to the forefront of his mind.

_Step 1: Check for responsiveness._

Harry takes Louis ever so carefully by the waist and lightly shakes him. “Louis! Louis, are you alright? Say something if you can hear me. Or, or just nod, okay?”

There’s nothing—no reply, nor movement of any kind. That means he should continue.

_Step 2: Call for an ambulance._

And there it is! The elusive second step Harry couldn't manage to remember earlier. It makes sense, of course. What good is giving CPR if there's no one on the way to provide further treatment?

“Call for an ambulance,” Harry shouts hoarsely. Fizzy must have a mobile with her… He trusts her to take care of it.

_Step 3: Tilt head and lift chin to open airway._

With a hand to Louis’ forehead, Harry does exactly that, wondering why this process had seemed so bloody difficult before.

_Step 4: Give two breaths._

When giving CPR to an infant, Harry knows you’re supposed to cover both their mouth and nose with your mouth before breathing, but, like, obviously that’s not right for adults. Remembering what he’s seen in movies, he pinches Louis’ nose and joins their mouths to breathe for him.

Damn, it’s hard to get the air in, as if Louis’ body is resisting the life-giving oxygen. So after the prescribed two exhalations, Harry gives another breath just for good measure.

_Step 5: Check for a pulse._

Harry digs three fingers into the side of Louis’ neck where he thinks the jugular should be. After several moments of prodding around, he still can’t locate a heartbeat. Shit, this is scary stuff. Now for the chest compressions. He straddles Louis’ legs, trying to find leverage. Lacing the fingers of both hands together, Harry places them flat over Louis’ heart and locks his arms.

 _Step 6:_ …

The next step is probably not “Get kneed in balls by victim.” Nevertheless, that’s what is taking place. At first, it feels more like a nudge, like something Harry might be imagining, but then Louis gets a pretty good hit in, and Harry rolls off, collapsing beside him.

“You—” Louis manages in a tiny rasp, eyes still closed. “Fucking—” He coughs once. “Idiot.”

“What?” Harry asks. The pain in his groin is intense, and he may yet cry, but it’s important Louis knows how dire the circumstances were. “I was trying to save your life,” he whimpers.

Louis is panting shallowly, moving in minute increments to suss out where he hurts worst. “Trying to kill me off, you mean. Did you even...” He pauses to moan. “Did you think to check my pulse first?”

“Yes! Louis, you didn’t have one!”

“Where were you looking, my teeth?” Louis asks on a humourless laugh.

Fizzy’s voice punctures the pain bubble they’re both writhing in. “Um, guys? Are you alright?”

“That remains,” Louis says, wincing, “to be seen.” His left shoulder feels like it’s been trod on by an elephant.

“Well, they’re sending medics, so…”

Louis attempts to sit up. “Shit, really? Why?”

“Step 2,” Harry explains, and finds it ironic that he's now reminding his instructor of his own words. “I told her to call 999.” Now that his head is clearing, he asks Félicité, “Where have all the twins gone, though? I left the babies right over there by the sandpit.”

“Oh,” Fizzy says, “I rang Lottie too.” She points to a cluster of children stood waiting on the pavement, guarded by the eldest Tomlinson sister. Then they hear sirens howling in the distance, and Fizzy walks to join the others, watching for the lights.

Louis’ flat on his back again, and he decides he’ll stay there until someone peels him off the ground. “That’s that, then, Harry. We’ll see what the professionals have to say about your slipshod technique.”

“Please don’t tell them.” Harry props himself on one arm to lean over Louis and beg. “They don’t need to know. I mean, I didn’t actually hurt you, did I?”

Louis tuts, clearly feeling healthier if he’s able to tease. “It was a near miss. You could’ve crushed my ribs with those paws of yours.”

“I would never! You taught me better than that.”

“I’m not so sure,” Louis says ruefully. “Anyway, I’ll give you a pass on one condition…”

“Yeah? Okay, whatever you need, Lou.” Whoops. Harry hadn’t mean to assign him a nickname quite so soon. It’s the stress talking, that’s all.

Louis heaves a wobbly sigh. “I need…”

“Yes?”

“I need you to kiss it better.”

The words make Harry lunge back in surprise. “Your—your shoulder?” He’s not been asked by a boy for a kiss before, not even for a medicinal one on an innocuous body part.

“My mouth,” Louis insists. “It’s a bit sore from, uh, from when you tried to breathe for me.”

“Oh, god. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, but I don’t think…”

“ _Harry._ ” Louis’ voice is firm. “It’s the least you can do, really.”

And this is where Harry should stand and walk away, should bail before Louis realises he knows less about kissing than CPR. Is it possible to fail at a kiss? Probably, and Harry is no doubt doomed to do so.

Before he can register what’s happening, Louis reaches out with his uninjured arm to clamp warm fingers around Harry’s bicep.

“Come to me,” he implores, tugging Harry forward and down. Louis’ hand moves stealthily to the back of Harry’s neck, bringing their faces closer than they’ve ever been, even considering the coat tree incident.

Harry braces himself over Louis with his arms, careful not to make contact with the other boy’s torso or damaged shoulder. He can’t help but find it impossible that his first kiss is going to play out this way. On a layer of cold, prickly wood chips, with a person he’s only met a week ago… Who knows who all watching from the sidelines… Ambulances racing to the scene…

But their lips are touching now, and Harry no longer needs to deliberate or worry. It’s such a soft joining; Harry might say Louis is nibbling at his mouth, if nibbles can happen without teeth and only lips. No, that doesn’t make sense. Maybe nothing needs to right now. Louis presses his palm more deliberately behind his neck, and Harry leans in and follows his lead, emulating the barely perceptible opening and closing of the older boy’s mouth against Harry’s in pleasing syncopation. It’s instinct to let the tip of his tongue slide out to lick at Louis’ bottom lip and then the top.

After a minute or two, Louis lowers his head to the ground. “Sorry, I’m feeling dizzy.”

“Me too,” Harry almost says. He settles for nuzzling Louis’ face with his own. Their cheeks brush, whispering against each other. It’s the most comforting thing Harry has ever heard or felt.

Louis moans softly in pain or delight beneath him, Harry doesn’t know which, but he trembles when Louis’ good arm snakes around his waist to coax him into a horizontal hug. Harry giggles a bit at the thought of having their first embrace lying down.

There’s a pounding of footsteps on the ground, heralding the arrival of several paramedics.

“Move out of the way, sir,” one of them says brusquely. “We’re here to help. How long have you been administering CPR?” he asks Harry.

Louis lets out a peal of laughter that confuses the medics, but sounds like music to Harry. The melody of falling in love, his heart plunging helplessly downwards the way Louis had in the serendipitous accident that led to all of this.

****

The next afternoon finds Harry back at the Tomlinson house for the CPR lessons he was to have had the day before. Even with a sore shoulder, it only takes an hour for Louis to get him up to snuff, and Harry leaves with a hard-earned certificate of completion. They practice more than resuscitation, however. In an exhilarating repeat of Harry’s first kiss, Louis teaches him the best methods for communicating without words, and Harry is an excellent pupil.

As it happens, he has all his significant firsts with Louis.

Not that first night but a scant week later, in the privacy of Louis’ basement bedroom, he gives Harry his very first handjob, and—after Harry returns the favour with hands that are every bit as nimble as Louis had anticipated—his first blowie, as well. Before another month passes, Harry has a blue-eyed boyfriend, his first, who treats him like a prince and snogs him like a concubine.

In June, Louis’ around when Harry’s niece comes home for the first time, and he coaches him on the right way to hold the fragile babe. After that, they’re swamped with babysitting requests, but Harry and Louis manage to spend a halcyon first summer together at arcades, and the beach, and their respective bedrooms. Harry sees his first rock concert with Louis in Manchester, and they have their first dance to _The Man Who Can’t Be Moved_.

Harry and Louis argue for the first time after Louis forgets their 6-month anniversary, but he gives Harry his first silver ring to make up for it.

Harry cries when Louis moves to Leeds in the fall and they have to say their first real goodbye, right on the heels of their first _I love you_ s. Impatient to be reunited, Harry takes the train a few weekends later for his first stay in another city without his family. It’s there that Louis’ first flatmate is _not_ pleased to walk in on them 69ing for the first time.

In December, Louis comes back from uni on winter hols. He gives Harry his first red rose as a boutonniere and escorts him to the winter formal at Harry’s school. They make love for the first time afterwards (Harry doesn’t find his bowtie in the backseat of Louis’ car until almost a year later).

When Harry starts his first semester at the University of Leeds, Louis finds them their very first flat, which they share until Louis graduates with a teaching degree. Harry eventually leaves school because Louis gets his first full-time position in the drama department of a secondary school back in Doncaster. It’s alright; Harry takes a job in the first place he ever worked—a bakery—and they promote him to first-shift manager.

Louis makes Harry his first wedding proposal on his 21st birthday, and becomes his first husband (his last one too) not long afterwards. Harry’s barely 22 when Louis gives him the first baby of their own via surrogate, but it’s okay—they’ve got plenty of expertise when it comes to childcare. Harry really should retake an infant CPR class, though, just in case; it’s been a while since his first one. Maybe he can talk his spouse into teaching the course again, for old times’ sake.

Louis does it, because Harry’s good at sweet talking him. It’s not the first time Harry’s had to, after all, and it won’t be the last.

Harry and Louis don’t share very many lasts, but _they_ last. And last, and last, and last. It’s easy, that, because they need each other like oxygen. Like blood in their veins and beating hearts to keep it moving. They love—and really live—together for so long, they’re able to hold their first great-grandchild at his christening, and watch him take his first steps, and hear about him riding his first bike. It doesn’t matter who dies first, because Louis and Harry will last beyond this lifetime.

And they do. 

**Author's Note:**

> ^^^ Just look at the painfully beautiful fanart [Dissa/Shii/stainedcofffee-cup](http://stainedcofffee-cup.tumblr.com/) made for this story!
> 
> P.S. I guess they don’t routinely eat waffles in England, nor have them in hotels. Well, they should.
> 
> P.P.S. Yes, babysitting bootcamp is a real thing. I went to one at age 11. Louis Tomlinson wasn't the teacher, more's the pity.


End file.
